


Come at Once and Join Me There

by mistyzeo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-30
Updated: 2010-10-30
Packaged: 2017-10-15 04:01:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/156849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John still has nightmares sometimes.  Sherlock can help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come at Once and Join Me There

**Author's Note:**

> For [](http://community.livejournal.com/sherlockfest/profile)[**sherlockfest**](http://community.livejournal.com/sherlockfest/)'s second contest. The prompt: _Hey baby, thanks for clearing my dreams,/Of all those horror scenes which crept in uninvited_.

John has dreams about the war, sometimes. Sometimes they're horrifying, nightmarish: blood everywhere, screaming, the stink of death and rot, the never ending sting of sand in his eyes, in his clothes, under his fingernails; the chatter of guns, the hot air weighing him down, sticking in his lungs as he tries to sew a boy's intestines back into his gut. He wakes up in a cold sweat, shaking, his own whimpers jerking him to awareness, and he lies in the tangle of his sheets panting, eyes open, until the chill London air puts him back into his body.

Sometimes they're confused and muddled, and he can hear the shouting more faintly, feel the adrenaline coursing through him, sense danger lurking just behind him, taste sand and copper in his mouth, and he wakes up hard in his shorts, hot all over, sick to his stomach with guilt.

Then he starts sleeping with Sherlock.

For a while he didn't think Sherlock even slept, always coming down in the morning to find him almost exactly where he'd left him: on the sofa, or in his chair, or on John's laptop, tapping away like a madman. Like he'd never even moved.

But then he discovered that if he just fucked Sherlock stupid, Sherlock slept like the dead. He also cuddled, which was a surprise. But then again, John thought the first time, his arm pinned under Sherlock's head and his nose buried in Sherlock's hair, it could be a worse surprise. It could be body parts in the fridge again, even after he'd asked Sherlock specifically not to put them there. It could be finding details on bomb making sitting on the coffee table, written in what looked suspiciously like his own handwriting.

They don't always sleep in the same bed. In fact, they usually don't, since Sherlock takes up too much space and hogs the covers, and John doesn't feel like he ought to bother him with the inevitable nightmares. Somewhere, deep inside, he does miss it: the war, the adrenaline, the fighting, the survival. But the top layer of him is still freaked the fuck out sometimes, and it all comes out when he's asleep.

He's dreaming now. He knows he's dreaming, but it's one of those dreams where he can't do anything about it. He can't wake himself up, either, so he'll have to wait this one out, see where it takes him, before he's allowed to escape.

It's not going to be a good one.

He's sees Warrington, the poor kid: leg blown off and bleeding out. John's hands are ineffectual, clumsy, sliding in the blood, and even though his rational brain knows that Warrington lives and gets discharged and goes home, inside here Warrington is crying for his mother and fading fast.

Then things change, and dream-logic supplies the idea that Warrington is dead, and John is being blamed for it. Hunted for it. He hasn't got anywhere to go, but go he must, so he's running. He's not running fast enough, and he's exhausted, and someone is shouting his name. He can't turn around, not now, not after everything---

and he opens his eyes, and Sherlock is hissing, "John. John!" and shaking him. It's dark out, and dark inside, and the outline of Sherlock's head is faintly visible against the street light coming through the window. His palms are cool and rough, and John's burning up. He shoves, pushing the duvet off, pushing Sherlock's hands away.

"Can you turn off that f-fucking heater," he gasps, rolling onto his side. It's not the problem, obviously, but if he weren't so hot maybe he wouldn't think he was back in Afghanistan again.

Sherlock ignores him and climbs into the bed, limbs too long, pulling the duvet with him. He drapes it over them and gathers John in his arms in a disconcerting show of comfort and affection, pressing kisses to the back of his neck.

"Stop it," he chides when John resists. "You were shouting, and you woke me up."

"Sorry," John mutters, and his face feels uncomfortably warm.

"It's all right," Sherlock says, sounding a little surprised himself. He presses his nose-- cold-- behind John's right ear, and squeezes his arms around John's middle. "You sounded upset."

"Of course I was fucking upset," John growls before he can help himself, and then he's gritting his teeth against the tirade. His heart is still hammering in his chest. Sherlock places a hand over that traitorous heart, over John's t-shirt, and rubs in a slow circle. John focuses on the touch of his hand, on taking ever-deeper breaths, on the feel of Sherlock's body spooned up behind his own. Sherlock's knees tuck into the crook of his knees very nicely, his feet are chilly, and his breath is warm on the back of John's neck.

"Sorry," he says again, and Sherlock huffs a sigh. But he doesn't say anything, and his hand moves slowly down from John's chest to his stomach, still rubbing, still soothing. John shifts, irritable, and Sherlock lets him turn on his back. The better to continue his utterly confusing massage, apparently, as he adjusts his arm under John's neck, lays his cheek on John's good shoulder, and carries on.

John dozes. Sometimes Sherlock's hand slows on his stomach, stops altogether when Sherlock drifts off, and it wakes them both up. Then the pressure starts again, steady and gentle, and at some point it goes from soothing to arousing. John's getting hard, slowly, swelling in his shorts, and Sherlock must feel it too because he rocks his hips lazily against John's thigh and nips lightly at his collarbone.

Sherlock slides his hand down, cups John through his shorts. He doesn't ask if it's all right, if John wants it, because it's obvious. He rubs his fingers along the length of John's cock and John's hips roll up, without his permission, pushing against the friction. He wants more. It wasn't _that_ kind of dream, the kind that leaves him breathless and aching and utterly confounded, but John thinks maybe if he just lets Sherlock fuck _him_ stupid, maybe he'd sleep too.

Sherlock murmurs something and squeezes him firmly before letting go and lifting himself up. John opens his mouth to protest the cold air rushing in, but Sherlock swings a leg over and settles into John's lap smoothly. He cradles John's head in his hands, and John finds his fingers sliding up Sherlock's legs to grip his hips.

Then Sherlock is kissing him, slowly at first, opening his mouth and licking in as he starts to rock his hips down into John's. John is distracted from his melancholy by the slow movement of his mouth, lips pressing and sliding, tongue dipping in between his teeth and then back out: inviting, teasing. John lets his eyes close again and focuses on the sharp nip of Sherlock's teeth in his lower lip, the gentle scratching of Sherlock's fingers against his scalp.

He spreads his knees, slides his hands up Sherlock's smooth back underneath his shirt. He _is_ the kind of man who would wear a matching pyjama set, John thinks idly, fingertips finding the dimples on either side of Sherlock's spine. Sherlock begins to roll his hips, pressure and speed increasing gradually, inversely related to the length of his kisses, and eventually he's grinding against John and more or less just panting against his mouth. John is clutching him, straining, and he arches his head back to get a breath of air.

Sherlock fastens on his throat immediately, like John's presented him with an offering, and he kisses and bites his way from John's jaw to his clavicle, never slowing the steady rock of his hips. His cock is a hard line in his pyjama pants, hot and thick against John's, and then John needs to kiss him again.

He gets a hand in Sherlock's hair, sinks his fingers deep and holds him still to kiss him, savage and desperate. Sherlock moans, growls an appreciation into his mouth, and John urges him to move faster, harder, almost using Sherlock's body to get himself off. Sherlock doesn't seem to mind. He breaks the kiss and presses his face into the crook of John's neck, breath coming fast, and obliges, humping John shamelessly.

John can feel it starting, rising in his core and threatening to overwhelm him. He hears himself hiss, "Oh, Sherlock, fuck--" and Sherlock fucking _bites_ him, hard, on the throat. He comes with a shout of surprise and indignation, spurting in his shorts, shuddering and arching and grinding Sherlock's hips against his. Sherlock's groan is muffled in his neck, but he can feel the tightly controlled shaking that means Sherlock is moments from orgasm.

"Fuck, yes," he hisses, "come on," and Sherlock freezes as he comes, soaking his outrageous silk pyjamas, his mouth open and soft against John's neck.

"Jesus Christ," John says, when it's over, fingering the mark on his throat. Sherlock doesn't look sorry, but he licks the teeth dents anyway, and John curls his fingers around the back of Sherlock's skull.

Then Sherlock rolls off, kicks off his pants, and says, "Now will you sleep?"

"I guess I ought to," John murmurs, but he's already halfway there, thinking that he should take his shorts off before they dry and not giving a damn much anyway, all warm and sated with Sherlock snuggling up against his side again.

"Good," Sherlock says quietly. "I'll need you alert tomorrow."

 _Case?_ John says, or thinks he might say, but Sherlock says nothing, just presses a kiss to his shoulder through his shirt and tucks his arm around John's middle.

John sleeps like the dead.


End file.
